


Lure

by watermelonascot



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Bottom Pete, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Infatuation, M/M, Nuclear Winter, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Nuclear War, Top Patrick, Unhealthy Obsession, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 08:25:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13073004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watermelonascot/pseuds/watermelonascot
Summary: Patrick became the fever Pete can’t sweat out and he’s obsessed with his own sickness. He views him through rose-colored glasses and clings to him like a safety blanket because he knows that he’d be a different person without him.





	Lure

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays! I personally celebrate Yule and dabble in Christmas for the novelty :)
> 
> Most of this was inspired by ‘a forbidden dance’ by alesana. Voila, you get this mess of angst, porn and zombies.

Patrick’s lips are void of life, chapped from the biting chill of the wind and almost a deadly pale resembling blue. A line of blood runs from his nose to his upper lip and he flicks his tongue out to lap at it. He gives a hard, visible shiver as he holds the lit cigarette to his mouth and takes a hit before passing it back to Pete. His smile is so large that it nearly splits his face in two. His nose oozes and it’s all Pete can focus on as he says, “Do you have any plans for today?”

Pete’s face is sore and battered from the earlier events of that day. There was a bit of a scuffle over a truck of canned goods crashed into a bridge near the Joint. It all happened so fast and is remembered by Pete as a blur of fists and yelling. Even if slightly scathed, he emerged victorious and had the supplies to keep the other members of his group alive for another few days. Sure, his lips are bruised, his left eye is a bit swollen and he has the blood of another man on his hands and jacket, but at least he has a chance of living until next week.

That is, of course, if he doesn’t perish from other causes. It’s easier to die than it is to stay alive, but Pete is convinced that both are equally terrible. It doesn’t matter if he does either; he’ll suffer regardless. If he survives to next week, he’ll have to deal with possible attacks from the undead, fending off other gangs and try to avoid whatever virus was going around. Things are shit and always will be shit.

When things went to shit, some people took the easy way out and walked into blast zones for a quick death. Others turned to religion and became fundamentalists under a cult-like group. And then there were others who fought tooth and nail for survival and abandoned their morals. Pete is one of the people who chose to survive. He embraced both nihilism and pessimism with open arms. Death doesn’t terrify him nearly as much, but now he’s not as reckless, not when he has the seemingly perpetually optimistic Patrick by his side with his blue eyes and witty comments.

“You know damn well I don’t,” Pete replies with a smirk. The left side of his face throbs painfully. He ignores this, but his eyes still prick and burn with the onslaught of tears. He’s being coy on purpose; he wants to know what Patrick has in mind.

“Good. I want to do something with you.” Patrick’s tone is wicked, an impish smile playing on his sickly lips.

Mischief. He’s up to something. He always is. Pete’s always in agreeance with whatever he wants to do, never complaining or resisting. Not that he ever would. They’re complete opposites but that’s why their relationship function. Things are intense, giving each other so much pressure that it’s nearly suffocating. It’s almost like erotic asphyxiation; Pete would give anything to be smothered, battered, consumed by Patrick’s presence. He would die for him, by him or with him if need be. The attachment and view he has of his lover is baleful and malignant, fueled by mania and desperation but he can’t levy his feelings. He can’t simply just acknowledge his adoration for Patrick; he has to allow himself to be hit in violent waves of it all at once until he drowns.

Patrick’s own sense of self doesn’t help Pete’s situation. He’s an invert of the other man, pompous and self-serving without being an absolute ass. How could he not be when he was chosen to lead his own group as soon as their previous one had died? He was more favored than his predecessor, charming, handsome and younger. He could solve any conflict without having to resort to immediate violence. Influence caught on quick like a cold and it was nearly terrifying. Patrick became the fever Pete can’t sweat out and he’s obsessed with his own sickness. He views him through rose-colored glasses and clings to him like a safety blanket because he knows that he’d be a different person without him.

Pete stares at the cigarette in his hand, his heartbeat now a faint flutter in his chest. He wishes Patrick would just be upfront with him because he already knows what he wants from him. He’s just like any other boy, the only difference being that Pete actually likes him. What their relationship means is unclear to both of them, but it isn’t a fling or hit-it-and-quit-it kind of thing. There’s an emotional connection, but he knows there likely won’t be any acknowledgement of it. If things were different...

The confidence he had moments before has vanished and ash falls from the end of the cigarette, a dull grey against the white snow blanketing the ground. He takes a half-hearted puff and passes it back to Patrick. “What do you have in mind?”

Patrick smirks at him and blood drips down his chin and onto the front of his shirt in two large drops the color of wine. Now they’re both covered in blood. Pete shudders and averts his gaze. “Gabe’s group is having a small get-together for the holidays.”

Oh, Gabe Saporta. Pete has known him for several years, but not personally, just through mutual friends. Even before the collapse of modern civilization, he’d always been a colorful character. He strikes Pete as being a tad egotistical and lacking of clear goals, but his morals are intact and he does a decent job of steering clear of trouble. At most, Pete feels neutral towards Gabe and has no bad blood.

“Are you asking me on a date?” Pete asks. The pitch of his voice rises as the corners of his mouth curve upward. A dull ache spreads through his nerves and he can’t help but release a low groan. Guiding a hand up to rub away the pain, he mutters, “You know how I feel about these little ‘celebrations’.”

He has never been a huge fan of parties and his liking for them has only dwindled since the nuclear war. He finds them pointless and wasteful. There has been nothing to celebrate for nearly four years now. Throwing parties consumes mass amounts of food, energy and fuel - things that are not easily renewable and necessary for survival. It’s all too much, with bright lights and loud music and constant yelling. These events always attract walkers and there are always casualties.

Chuckling a bit darker than usual, Patrick takes another draw from the cigarette and lets it rest between two of his pale fingers. “I know. That’s why it’s the perfect diversion for what I truly have in mind.” He wraps an arm around Pete’s shoulders and pulls him towards him. Pete stumbles forward and has to firmly plant his foot into the snow to avoid slipping. Patrick bats his lashes in a mockingly innocent way and smiles at the other man. The smell of nicotine and something metallic are rich, radiating from his scarf and winter coat like heat from a furnace. Pete stifles a cough and swallows thickly. “You know what I want, right?”

Pete nods meekly and mumbles, “Yes.” He always knows what Patrick wants and is always more than willing to give in. He’s his obedient boyfriend, forever compliant and attentive to his desires. If Patrick wants to fuck him in the abandoned barn on the outskirts of Cooperstown, he’ll let him. What they do isn’t very subtle. Sometimes Pete leaves for two hours at a time and returns at the crack of dawn with bruises lining his wrists and neck. Other times, it nearly goes undetected until he limps into council meetings to represent his group or watch a trial. He’s allowed himself to be used in multiple places whenever Patrick pleases but no one ever seems to notice, or maybe no one is brave enough to confront either of them about it. The distasteful glances he receives and offhand whispers he hears speak volumes, but they don’t concern him because none of these will ever be expressed to Patrick or him. Together, they’re untouchable.

Maybe Patrick is aware of his power. He’s ever so observant with his prying eyes that remind Pete of the volatile currents of a river and sharp-tongued, making witty remarks whenever he can. Perhaps Patrick is aware that he has unwavering control, that he makes Pete feel overexposed and small in comparison, that he is damn near obsessed with him. Maybe he gets off on it from a narcissistic point of view, knowing that he could lead a cult if he wanted to and that no one would dare question him. He has to know that; he isn’t innocent or dimwitted. But the fact that he has yet to abuse his power or show malevolent intent is what makes Pete place so much faith in him. It feeds his infatuation.

“And you know where to meet me, yes?” The wind is cold and unforgiving - according to the thermometer Joe built, the highest temperature for the day was 43 degrees. How the wind would be was undetermined because he had yet to find the proper algorithm or pattern to be accurate - and blew out the butt of the cigarette, ashes falling on top of Pete’s battered sneakers.

Heaving a sigh so great that Pete can feel it vibrate in every limb of his body, he nods again. “Yes. The car under the large cork tree, right?”

Now Patrick nods and grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. The way he relishes Pete’s unwavering submission to him is nearly narcissistic. Pete would (could) hit him if he weren’t so foolishly in love with him. He hides his gloved hands in the pockets of his coat, closing his fingers around handfuls of fabric. It’s his fault for letting Patrick see the most intimate parts of him. He isn’t allowed to be angry or feel like he’s overexposed. It isn’t violation when you willingly put yourself on display. He cut himself open and invited Patrick to take a look at his insides, didn’t mind when he poked around or moved things. He can’t blame him for whatever damage may have been done, not completely. It takes two to fight. It takes two to love.

“That’s the one. Will you meet me there if I asked you to?”

He knows the answer to that. He knows the answer to most of the questions he asks Pete. He seems to adore making the other man admit to his neediness. Maybe he is more aware of the control he has over others than Pete gives him credit for. Pete would never resist him anyhow. Any piece of Patrick he can get is welcome and he always craves more. Like an addict itching to get their next fix, he will do anything for it.  
“Of course.” Pete hunches his shoulders and holds his head down as a rather sharp gust of wind blows over him. Next to him, Patrick shudders and snubs the waning cigarette under his boot despite it almost immediately going out due to the cold surrounding it.

This winter is definitely the worst. A strange sickness has been spreading through Cooperstown and already has claimed the lives of ten people within the past three weeks. The Joint has medicines that can cure it but they are scarce and a luxury to have. A few self-trained medics have dedicated their time to caring for anyone who has fallen victim to disease and made their own cures out of berries found in the woods but even that is something short of a miracle. With the tumultuous weather, it’s nearly impossible for anyone to make trips to retrieve more supplies. Doing so would be a deathwish; they need as many free hands as possible.

There have been more sightings of ice walkers too. This normally isn’t an issue for the militia of archers and gunmen, but the population has seemingly tripled. The ice walkers gather in hoards near the barb wire-lined fences and brick walls, scratching and groaning as they attempt to breach. A few managed to get inside Cooperstown twice last week but luckily no one was injured. It still causes disorder whenever there are groups of walkers, especially during winter. The little shits don’t have the common sense to avoid water and often end up frozen into lakes and rivers. That spells hell for citizens when they thaw during the spring. Most of all, it’s unnerving to see their unblinking dead eyes dart under the ice and follow your every move, even if they can’t hurt you.

Pete straightens his back and throws his head back, exhaling a breath of white into the air. He has too much on his mind. “What time?”

Patrick moves to face Pete, “7:30 pm. Can you manage that?”

“Yeah, that’s perfect.” Patrick lingers near him for several seconds too long, questioning him without having to utter a single word. His blue lips hover over Pete’s chapped lips, slick with droplets of blood. It’s gross and seems unpleasant.

Pete doesn’t hesitate to kiss him. Somehow the taste of bitter blood on his tongue makes things better and more bearable. It’s a reminder that death is imminent and inevitable even in simple moments of confusing bliss like this. Every injury he’s ever sustained has been a warning, a memento mori of some sort. He holds each of them close to his heart and keeps a list of their causes and occurrences for future reference. One can never be too careful and he only makes mistakes once.

If Patrick were a mistake, he’d be his favorite one for sure. His blood is metallic and sticks to the inside of Pete’s mouth. He swallows it as he pulls away and smiles warmly at the other man. He can feel the blood thickly coating his teeth but doesn’t bother to lick it away. “I love you.” _I’d die for you._

Overlooking Pete’s glazed eyes and gory mouth or maybe unbothered by these oddities, Patrick smooths melting snow from his raven hair and grins. “I love you too.” His hands gently glide over the skin of Pete’s face, fingertips tracing over stubble, bruises and oily skin affectionately. Pete winces when he makes contact with his fresh bruises, but doesn’t resist. Patrick brushes his thumb over his lower lip and whispers, “you’re so pretty, Pete.”

_Would you die for me too?_

But he isn’t. His flesh is discolored and rough in places. His hair has grown out in thick dark curls and there’s a deep scar under his left eye from a fight he got into years ago. He thinks he is unattractive as the result of being conditioned to the standards of beauty that once mattered to society. He thinks Patrick is perfect and practically seraphic with his strawberry blonde hair, round blue eyes and pouty candy-colored lips. He could spend hours exploring his body. Even after two years of mutual intimacy, Pete has yet to find dissatisfaction in Patrick’s appearance. Every scar, stretch mark and mound of soft pale skin is something he worships and holds sacred because he knows it’s connected to the man he sings his praises to. Did Patrick lower his standards or does he see something good in him? He’ll probably never know, but he doesn’t really care when he has someone fawning over him. When he’s in Patrick’s arms, he abandons his inhibitions. Patrick has become a safety blanket; Pete can’t function properly without his security.

In a disapproving tone, Patrick says, “you’re shivering. Are you okay?” He holds Pete’s face between both of his hands and turns it so their gaze is shared. Opal meets amber and Pete’s knees momentarily go weak. He manages to stand upright as he nods, eyes enlarged and locked with Patrick’s. His light eyebrows furrow. “You’ve been a bit out of it through most of today, but I didn’t want to say anything.”

So he knows, or is semi-aware. He’s half-doomed. _Please tell me you feel what I feel._ “I’m fine, just a little cold.” Pete nuzzles into one of Patrick’s palms, kissing his fingertips. The concept of engaging in intercourse with Patrick during the holidays celebration is becoming more and more appealing to him. “Let’s go back inside. I’m sure everyone misses us.” _They only truly miss you. I don’t matter to them outside of being your boyfriend._

Patrick caresses Pete’s face again and wipes the blood from his split lip before letting his hands fall away. Pete sighs at the lack of contact and finds himself leaning forward. He stops himself and swallows thickly. “You need to see William so he can care for your injuries,” he suggests. “Your eye looks really painful.”

“It is,” Pete admits in a small voice. Usually, he’d argue back and assure Patrick that he would be fine, that someone else could use the bandages and ointments it would take to heal his wounds. But Patrick seems to know what’s best for him. He forces a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll go to the infirmary before the party.”

 _Patrick knows best. He wants to keep you safe. You love him for this._ He does, but he also loves him for so much more than that too, not that Patrick will ever know.

 

*  
Cooperstown is lively with festivities. Pete feels out of place with a bandaid over his forehead and tight stitches in his lips as he sits at a worn picnic table. The white paint is raising with bubbles and chipping from age, faded graffiti littered across the wood. He pulls out his knife and scrapes at the tabletop half-mindedly, waiting for things to pick up a bit before he can slip away to be with Patrick. Even if the idea of a party especially during times like this makes him want to visibly roll his eyes, he has to show respect to keep things amicable with the Cobras. They’ve proven themselves to be useful and have an unwavering loyalty to the Youngbloods, the group he and Patrick belong to.

The tip of the blade is chipped and the handle is loose, but still sharp enough to make deep cuts. It needs to be taken to Spencer for repairs. Pete’s been putting that off for weeks now because he’s too withdrawn to strike up conversation with the blacksmith and finds him to be semi-intimidating with his flat voice and dull eyes. He belongs to a different group and Patrick has yet to trust their leader, anyway.

Brendon Urie is a strange man. Pete’s only spoken to him twice and in those brief moments, he already determined that he didn’t like him. The way Brendon laughs loudly during meetings bothers him. He comes off as attention seeking and full of himself. With Gabe, Pete can stand this behavior because he’s a good friend and well-mannered enough to stop during arguments or fundamental discussions, but Brendon is downright malicious. He is catty, talking down to others and giving sandwiched compliments whenever he can. When he attacks, he goes for the kill. Pete’s collected this information from his interactions with others like souvenirs for a scrapbook. Every time Brendon rears his head or is even mentioned, he remembers the way he yelled at his team of medics for not having enough bandages to care for the victims of an unexpected attack and forced them to go into the woods when a herd of heat walkers had been spotted nearby, resulting in two casualties. Pete doesn’t like him or think him to be reliable. He’s more of a tyrant than someone to govern around 300 people.

Pete doesn’t mention this to anyone because it’s not his place. He’s a runner and was promoted to a higher rank only a few days ago. His specialty is finding whatever supplies he can and trading them at the Joint. His athletic ability proves to be fruitful, but that means nothing to anyone who doesn’t have the same role. He’s essentially part of working class level of their slightly altered way of life and only functions in the backgrounds, therefore being deemed irrelevant and easy to replace. His word has no power; his word means shit.

But Pete isn’t focused on that right now, or he at least won’t admit to it. He etches into the painted wood feverishly, forming an XO in boxy letters. He blows away the granules of wood and closes his knife before tucking it into his pocket at the notice of more people gathering in the area.

As much as he hates being around swarming crowds of people, he has to admit that this makeshift celebration came together nicely. It was a smart thought to use the clearing near the Joint because it’s a blur of spacious green with patches of white snow blanketing the trees and rooftops circling the neighborhood. Fairy lights in mismatched colors, some blown out or blinking faintly, wrap around lamp posts, the fronts of houses, anything they can hang off of. There’s a large Christmas tree in the center of the snowy field with ornaments dangling off its branches. At the moment, a ladder is being set up as a girl with faded bleached hair (probably Hayley) rips open a box and climbs it to place a star on top of it.  
Pete finds himself smiling and strides over to make sure Hayley doesn’t fall and to strike up any form of conversation to entertain him. He weaves through the crowd, carefully avoiding bumping into other people. A man in one of the ugliest Christmas sweaters he’s ever seen (he soon recognizes him as Taylor, Hayley’s boyfriend) moves to hold the ladder in place and beams when he sees Pete. “Hey,” he says coolly. “I didn’t expect to see you here. You rarely show up to these kinds of things.” He glances up at Hayley before looking back to Pete. “What made you want to show your face.”

I’m just being nice. “It was Patrick’s idea,” Pete replies. Not a complete lie. He took some of the truth, but abandoned most of it in favor of not being strange. This is a family affair; he doesn’t need to fuck this up. All he needs to do is smile and engage in meaningless small talk. Oh, how he despises small talk. Secretly, he thinks everyone does but they never say anything because silence leaves room for flaws to become known. He refuses to let that happen. “I thought this seemed nice so I agreed to come.” He plucks one of the pine needles from the tree and inspects it carefully. “Is this an actual tree?”

“Yeah,” Hayley shouts down at him. His eyes flit up and he sucks in a sharp breath as he sees her stand on her toes to place the ornament on the tip of the tree. “I think Andy cut it down? Today’s been extremely hectic so I can’t really remember.” She adjusts some of the other objects attached to the tree before swiftly climbing down. She’s limber and fast. Pete wonders why she’s confined to babysitting instead of being a runner or on patrol, but he already knows the probable answer behind that.

That’s not my problem or business. “It looks good,” Pete manages to say, a bit dazed by his own thoughts. He wipes his eye and sighs to himself. “Do you have the time?”

Taylor rolls up his left sleeve and glances at the cracked watch on his wrist. “6:45. What, you got a hot date?” He wiggles his eyebrows and laughs.

Pete gnaws the inside of his cheek and nods. This is just a joke, they don’t know about his plans with Patrick. It’s all in good nature. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” He still blushes when he remembers the other times he’s snuck off with Patrick during events like this.

Hayley notices this and grins excitedly. “Holy shit, you really do.” She waves him off and grabs a cup of hot chocolate from a table cluttered with unused festive decorations next to the tree. “I’m not really judging, but it’s just...I don’t know. Funny?” When Pete raises an eyebrow, she groans and elaborates. “You’re like twenty-five and disconnected from everything. The idea of you doing anything romantic is kinda out of character because you don’t click with other people, y’know?” She takes a sip of her drink and tightens her scarf around her neck. “Not trying to be shady, by the way. You’re a lovely couple.”

Pete nods, pretending that he understands what she means. He only has a small idea of what she meant by that, but he’s overall clueless and confused. But she complimented him so he’ll take it. “Yeah,” he says weakly. “I...should go find Patrick.” He forces another smile and waves before walking away as quickly as possible.

 _Did that go well? I like to think it did._ They didn’t look concerned when I was talking. Are they staring at me? He turns his head back in their direction, eyes straining as he searches for Hayley’s head of bright hair. He bumps into something and stumbles back, mumbling an awkward sorry until he finds himself standing face to face with Brendon.

More like face to neck. Brendon’s taller than Pete and that intimidates him. Brendon grins at him and pushes his glasses up his nose. To an outsider, this would be a friendly gesture. To Pete, it’s malicious. Predators show their teeth as a threat. That’s what this is. Brendon is a wild beast and he’s going to eat Pete alive.

“Hi,” Pete says meekly, averting his eyes.

“Hello, Peter.” Brendon loves calling people by their whole names to insight discomfort and a sense of feeling unimportant. “Where are you rushing off to?”

“Just going for a walk,” Pete replies quickly. Lying has always been second nature for him. The way he can conjure up fallacies so easily is worrisome, but comes in handy during times like this. “Sorry for bumping into you.” He begins to push past the other man until he feels a hand on his shoulder. He looks up to Brendon with large eyes and swallows, his throat suddenly feeling dry.

“Why don’t I join you?” Brendon purs back in a honeyed voice. He may be smiling, but this is far from a comfortable conversation between friends. His dark eyes are narrow and cling to Pete, watching carefully.

“Um, I’m good. Thanks for the offer, but I have things to do.”

“It wasn’t really a question.” Brendon’s hand tightens on his shoulder and Pete tries to draw away. Dropping his voice to a low whisper, he says, “I already know about your trysts with Patrick and could give a shit less about them. But you and I have much to discuss.”

 _I’m going to die and it’s almost Christmas. Who fucking dies near Christmas?_ His knees almost lock and he nods. “Okay. Make it quick.”

Brendon hums, happy that Pete has submitted to him and drags him away from the field. Pete wishes someone would notice this and ask questions, but he’s never been very lucky. People respect Brendon and would never question his motives. At least if he dies, he’ll go down by himself.

They walk into the woods and Pete’s heartbeat skyrockets, thrumming like a ticking bomb in his chest. Brendon keeps his eyes forward as he ducks under tree branches and steps over ice. The sound of crows cawing combined with the grey of the sky reminds Pete that they are completely alone and that he is vulnerable and helpless. The knife in his pocket feels like a stone. He could stab Brendon, but his action wouldn’t go without punishment. It would be foolish to attack someone with as much influence and power as Brendon.

Finally, they stop and Brendon releases Pete from his hold. Pete shrinks back, keeping as much distance between them as possible. If he has to run, he’ll have a slight chance of survival. Fight or flight.

Peering at him from behind his thick glasses, Brendon sniffles and says, “I’m not going to kill you here. Relax.” Pete gulps and rubs his shoulder. He can still feel Brendon’s touch burning into his skin even under his jacket and sweaters. “But if you die, it will likely be at my order. Understand?” Pete nods quickly. “That would be very wasteful however because someone with your skillset can be useful. Now I have a proposal for you: why don’t you join my group?”

The only audible sound that can be heard is birds crying out and wind blowing through the trees. Pete bites his lower lip, trying to think of the best way to tell Brendon to fuck off without getting killed. “I have to decline,” he replies after several seconds. “I’m not interested in doing supply runs for any other groups and I’m satisfied where I am.” His fingers have gone numb from how cold it is and his eyes sting. Hunching over and shivering vehemently, he pleads, “Can I go now?”

Brendon tucks his hands into his pocket, startling Pete until he realizes he isn’t retrieving a weapon. The man nods and his expression becomes rigid and unreadable. Pete fucked up. “That will be fine,” Brendon says evenly, but there’s an edge to his voice. “You should go back to Patrick. I’m sure he’s looking for you right now, yes?”

Pete hates the way he talks. His sentences always end as rhetorical questions and always are tinged with crass sarcasm and degrading. He probably gets off on making people feel inferior and powerless compared to him.

“Yes…” Pete backs away from Brendon, not turning around until he’s out of his sight. He wasn’t guided deep enough into the forest to be lost or unaware of his surroundings. He memorized maps of Cooperstown over a year ago and took several glances at the intricate maps some of Cobra’s runners and navigators had made of the forests and wildlife around the town. That likely is why Brendon dragged him out here. He might be tyrannical and corrupt, but he is dangerously observant.

“I’ll take you back to him,” Brendon says. It’s worded like an offer, but Pete knows it’s actually a command that he ought to listen to.

He doesn’t argue this time when Brendon encloses one of his arms in his hands and drags him in a different direction than the one they’d arrived in. Pete’s been through this forest multiple times on supply runs and memorized the maps the Cobras created as well so he knows where he is and is aware that there’s no true threat. He still feels unwelcome and off-kilter when Brendon releases him from his grasp and gives a small nod.

“See you around. Watch your back, Peter.”

*  
From under the cork tree, the sky is spread out like a quilt of midnight with strands of wispy grey weaved into it. The moon shines through the passing clouds, looking like a shiny new dime. The car is battered and charred from catching fire after being crashed into the tree and hard on the eyes, but the heater and radio still work. There’s not much that can be done with the radio since Joe only broadcasts on weekends and the signal is dreadful, but the soft fuzzing of static is comforting and offers perfect white noise.

After pushing the seats down with difficulty, Pete and Patrick climb into the backseat and snuggle up under a blanket that was left in the trunk by whomever previously owned the car. Patrick’s body illuminates warmth and is soft and malleable next to Pete. He can’t help but to scoot closer until he’s burrowed under him with his stomach pressed to his back.

Patrick runs a hand through Pete’s hair, seemingly unbothered by how greasy it is. “What are you doing, baby boy?” he asks. His breath is hot against his ear and tickles, making him giggle delightfully.

“Getting comfortable,” Pete murmurs. “It’s just so cold outside, Trick.” He wiggles against Patrick teasingly, grinding his bottom back into his crotch. Patrick wraps his arms around his waist and presses into him, taking a hint that the other man is aroused and wants to be touched. “Why don’t you warm me up the way you only can?”

Today started horrible and became even more grim when he spoke to Brendon. What he wants right now is intimacy with his boyfriend. He wants to be a victim of sadism and blinding passion. He wants bruising kisses and hickies scattered across the golden expanse of his skin. He wants to be held down and fucked into until he’s red in the face and crying. He wants this to hurt in all the right ways.

But then Patrick kisses his neck, feather-light and achingly soft. He can’t help but to close his eyes and let out a long, low moan. Gentle is good too. He can definitely do gentle.

Patrick pushes his shirt up, letting his fingers dance over the trail of curly hair covering his stomach. His other hand pulls his pants and underwear down in one fluid movement, letting them pool around his ankles. Pete kicks them off and pulls his knees close to his chest, now in fetal position. Resting his lips on the space between Pete’s neck and shoulder, Patrick whispers, “Want me to take the rest of your clothes off for you?” His hand loosely grips one of Pete’s ankles before moving up to stroke and squeeze at the inside of his toned thighs.

Unable to form a coherent answer verbally, Pete groans in reply and sits up to make things easier for Patrick. The position is a tad uncomfortable and makes his joints and muscles ache but he doesn’t mind. He loves being taken care of by Patrick almost as much as he likes rough, violent sex with him.

The thought of Patrick’s hands around his throat as he fucks him mercilessly into the backseat of the car lights something in Pete and he’s suddenly grinding his hard cock into the seat’s cushions. “Patrick, please- “

“Shh.” Patrick tenderly kisses him, momentarily silencing him. Pete’s hips still and he melts into the other man’s touch, parting his lips and whimpering needily against him. Laughing quietly, Patrick draws back and pulls his shirt over his head before discarding it to the stained carpet at the bottom of the car. Pete moves as he watches his hands unfasten his belt and zipper, now sitting between his legs on his knees. He squirms when he sees the outline Patrick’s erection straining against the tight fabric of his jeans and plants his hands on his thighs as he pushes his face forward. He busses his face into Patrick’s pudgy stomach and crotch, mewling high in his throat. A hand is carded through his thick hair and he’s tugged back, head tilted up so he’s looking upward. “What are you doing?” Patrick asks in a sing-song voice.

“Wanna touch,” Pete replies. He sighs as his muscles relax. He feels so vulnerable and exposed when he’s at Patrick’s mercy. At this point, he’s so turned on he’ll do whatever he asks of him if it means he’ll get fucked.

Patrick grins down at Pete. “I’ll give it to you, don’t worry.” He pulls his cock from his pants and Pete audibly chokes and whimpers at the sight of it. Pink, thick and engorged from how turned on he is, Patrick’s dick is perfect for him. He tries to lean forward to suck his leaking tip into his mouth but the grip on his hair is tight and holds him in place. His eyes shut as he pathetically whines. Then he feels a dense weight against his lips and opens his eyes, immediately recognizing it as his lover’s cock. He sticks his tongue out to lap at it frantically like his life depends on it, earning a low moan from Patrick.

“I move you when I feel like it. Just keep working my cock like that and you’ll get what you want.” He feeds the rest of his length into Pete’s mouth, gasping at the sight of his ruined red lips stretching around him effortlessly. He slowly rolls his hips forward and grins when Pete swallows around him and instinctively begins bobbing his head. “You take me so well, Pete. Do you have any idea how beautiful you look right now?”

Pete shakes his head as best as he can while sucking Patrick off. His lower lip burns and he can taste blood, meaning his stitches have stretched too far and one of his injuries has reopened. _I’ll deal with that later,_ he thinks to himself. He’s only focused on the man in front of him right now, licking and sucking at him urgently. He feels Patrick at the back of his throat and gags a bit, but doesn’t stop. He hears Patrick’s breathing hitch and feels heat coil in his belly when his hips jerk up into his mouth again. His own hips are quivering and rocking forward, trying to rut into the air like a horny dog.

Patrick pushes Pete’s head down until his nose is nestled in his pubes, grinding against his face as he lets out a guttural moan. Pete’s nails dig into his clothed thighs and drag downward as he struggles to breathe through his nose. He’s held in place for several long seconds punctuated by the twitch of Patrick’s hips and the pleasured sound he makes when he throws his head back. Then Pete is lifted off of him with a wet pop, allowing him to take in a sharp breath of air as Patrick wraps a hand around himself, dragging his cock over his spit-slick lips. “Your mouth...” he says, sounding a bit awed. “You’re always so good for me.”

“I’d do anything for you,” Pete replies breathlessly. His voice is strained but the passion is still there. He licks up Patrick’s thick length and smiles at the sound he elicits before repeating the action. The words don’t seem to land with Patrick, flying over his head. He’s oblivious to his obsessive adoration for him for now.

His hair is tugged on again and he hisses at the pain. “Stop it or I’ll cum,” Patrick warns.

Pete would love to take him down his throat and have his cum in his mouth, but he thinks better of it and closes his mouth. What he wants more than anything is for Patrick to pin him to the seat and fuck him senseless.

But this is gentle so that doesn’t happen. Instead Patrick pulls Pete into his lap and touches Pete’s bruised lips lightly. “Your stitches are open,” he says softly.

“I’m okay,” Pete replies quickly. He’s less worried about his battered face and more focused on Patrick’s hard cock resting against his ass. He forces himself to have control and sit still. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

Patrick’s eyes, now a deeper shade of blue, sweep over him and Pete wonders what he’s seeing. Probably a slightly emaciated man whose body is speckled in dark ink, hair and colorful injuries every shade of the rainbow with a mess of oily dark curls atop his head. “Just a bit worried,” Patrick replies. He kisses Pete. His cheek throbs dully under the pressure and he can’t help but grind down on Patrick’s lap.

“Easy,” Patrick instructs calmly. “I have to open you up so it doesn’t hurt.”

 _I want it to hurt._ But he meekly mumbles in agreement as allows Patrick to push his back against the cushions of the backseat, spread his legs open and push his thighs upwards until they meet his chest. He doesn’t protest when Patrick spits on his hole and loosens him up until he’s fervently sinking down on three fingers, tightening around Patrick in a quiet plea. He’s so hard that he actually aches, his cock resting on his stomach and messily dripping precum.

Patrick finally pulls his fingers out and settles between Pete’s outspread legs. His hand wraps around his cock and strokes along the base before he guides it inside of him. He’s moving painfully slow, but it still overwhelms Pete and makes his eyebrows furrow as he groans. He drags his nails down the back of Patrick’s neck and arches his back, gasping. Even if he’s gentle and been properly prepped, he can still feel every inch of Patrick inside of him, thick and so fucking big, almost too much.

When Patrick has himself fully sheathed inside of Pete, he bottoms out and plants both of his hands on either side of his head. Their gaze meets and Pete momentarily forgets how to breathe. Patrick looks really fucking hot. His cheeks are flushed a shade of pink that makes him think of raspberries, pupils dilated and blown wide, sweaty blonde hair sticking to his forehead and his lips parted as he pants. Pete whimpers and looks away, shutting his eyes.

Patrick gets the message and finally, finally begins moving inside of him. His thrusts are forceful and deep but slow, his cock dragging over Pete’s prostate each time. Pete falls apart under him and moans wantonly. He sits up to steal a kiss, but their lips barely touch as they moan into one another’s mouths.

They’re practically just rutting against each other at this point, but it feels so damn good. Pete’s cock is trapped between both of their stomachs and it provides the proper friction to make him squirm. The muscles in his thighs clench and burn pleasantly as Patrick wraps his arms around his slender waist to hold him still.

Then Patrick pulls out of Pete, leaving him empty and feeling incomplete. Before he has chance to whine, he’s turned onto his side and filled once more, this time with more vigor. Patrick caresses his thighs and kisses his neck, whispering that he’s so tight and taking him so well. Pete really feels everything now and squeaks with each thrust, a drop of spit threatening to spill from his lips. “Gonna come,” he whimpers.

“Good,” Patrick says, sounding breathless. It takes one, two, three rough thrusts before Pete’s eyes water and he cries out sharply as cum lands on his stomach and the blanket. He slumps forward and whimpers as Patrick fucks him through it, jaw slack and vision blurred. He can feel Patrick’s chest heaving and hips stuttering as his orgasm nears before warmth blossoms through his ass. A loud keen leaves his mouth and he grinds back on Patrick, relishing the rushed gusty moans he makes.

Patrick gingerly peels away from Pete, smiling when he sees his cum dribbling from his used hole. “You’re leaking,” he says. “Want me to eat you out?”

Pete hums in reply and looks back to Patrick. In his aftersex haze he looks sated. He probably looks completely wrecked. He definitely feels fucked out with semen dripping from his ass and staining his stomach. He feels a squeeze on his left ass cheek and groans. “Mm, that’s enough for now,” he mutters sleepily. “‘M tired.”

“We can’t sleep here if we want to make curfew. Let me at least clean you up.” Patrick runs a hand through his hair adoringly. “I love you so much.”

Pete sits up and allows Patrick’s hand to guide him closer until his face is resting in the soft skin of his neck. He inhales the scent of sweat, sex and something minty but is still able to find Patrick underneath these smells. “I love you too. Have you seen my pants?”

*  
The walk back is quiet, only broken by the hushed sweet nothings the pair whisper back and forth to each other. The fairy lights and the majority of decorations were taken down hours ago, but the ornate pine tree and  
reefs stay up. It’s oddly festive for it to be so late at night, but it’s pacifying.

Hand-in-hand they carefully step over iced sidewalks and roads. Right now, Patrick’s giggling at something Pete said and he’s never looked more serene, rosy-cheeked and joyfully dimpled. Pete’s heart swells for him, even more so when he presses a chaste kiss to his jaw.

They’re the perfect match in an imperfect situation in an even more fucked world. It’s fitting, really, because luck has never been on either of their sides. Both of their bodies are speckled black and blue and colors between that, blemished and prone to chronic pain. They both have the starting of grey hairs and prickly stubble on their faces. Patrick’s glasses are cracked and more duct tape than wire and other proper material and the stretch marks on his thighs and stomach are stark in contrast to his place pudge. Pete has an ugly, thick scar on his throat and dark marks on his arms that scream failure. A running joke between them is that without their unfortunate experiences, they’d be too handsome for their own good.

Things are never blissful for too long. A rusted truck with an eye spray painted on its side turns onto the street and drives towards them. Luck has never been kind to either of them.

One of the truck’s doors opens and Brendon steps out, face void of emotion. Two of his men follow. Pete remembers them from the council, but isn’t able to name either of them. Brendon adjusts his glasses and sniffs, squinting at the two. Instinctively, Patrick steps in front of Pete, acting as a shield, but his expression is the same tight-lipped smile he forces during meetings and interactions with other leaders.

“Hi, Sinners,” he says smoothly, nodding towards the two men behind him. “What are you doing out here at this time? Isn’t it past curfew?”

“Oh, the same could be asked of you.”

Brendon’s voice is just as unreadable as his expression, but it registers to Pete as run! There is nothing but danger here. His eyes flit to the hands of the three men in front of him and he notices that they’re all holding something - an icepick, chains, a knife. Each a weapon, glinting viciously in the moonlight.

Pete pulls at Patrick’s jacket as a warning, but he stands his ground. “Well, this is my territory and I’m in charge, so no, you really couldn’t. But I don’t think I can speak for you, now can I?” He sounds out of character, raw and each word dripping venom.

Brendon raises one of his eyebrows and grins. He holds his icepick up in clear view and Pete watches Patrick’s eyes widen at the sight. “Patrick,” he whispers frantically.

“You’re absolutely right, Patrick,” Brendon says satirically. “I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He steps closer and circles around them, holding the sharp end of the icepick towards them. “So was Pete, earlier today.”

Pete feels four pairs of eyes on him and burns red hot. Patrick looks perplexed and mouths, “What?” at him but he pretends he didn’t see it.

“His refusal has given me an idea, but let me explain it first. This world has gone to shit. It’s every man for himself.” Brendon twirls the icepick and sighs dramatically. “So you have to take what you want and kill whoever gets in your way, right?”

“It doesn’t have to work like that,” Patrick counters uneasily.

Brendon laughs heartily. “No, but it does, Patrick.” He disappears from Pete’s line of vision, sending him into a numbing frenzy.

Sadly, he wasn’t numb enough to not feel the agony of being stabbed in the side. A loud, high scream rips through the air - who is that? It’s him. Pete’s screaming. He collapses to his knees and clutches at the wound, blood seeping through his fingers and slicking his hands. He withers on the asphalt of the street and watches the scene unfold in front of him.

Patrick moves out of his sight and there’s a thunderous crunching sound followed by a thud and _holy shit, one of Brendon’s men is lying dead on the ground._ He hears quickened footsteps, hinting at someone running away and then the sounds of flesh nesting flesh. Then there’s a strangled yell and a crash.  
*  
The stitches in his side ache and pull at the slightest movement, especially when he breathes, but it’s nothing new to him. He’s been in the medical wing of the refurbished hospital for a couple of days. Being stagnant for so long has left him with an incurable itch and a complete disinterest in everything.

The gloom clouding his mind only lifts when Patrick visits because he has questions. How are the supply runs going? Were there any ice walker sightings? Did he miss anything important at council meetings? Does your hand hurt? Great, just a few, no, just a bit.

“How’s Brendon?” He doesn’t really care, not for the right reasons anyway. He just wants to know how bad Patrick fucked him up and if that spells trouble for the Youngbloods.

Patrick’s reluctant in his answer and just stares at him. “Well?” Pete urges.

Clearing his throat and blinking, Patrick removes his damaged glasses. “He’s dead, Pete. I...killed him.” He averts his eyes, like he’s ashamed of his actions. “The concussion was fatal and he couldn’t survive the injuries. That other guy, Spencer? He isn’t dead.” He lets out a relieved sigh.

“Oh.” Pete doesn’t know what to say. “...are we going to have to answer to the council about it?”

Patrick shook his head. “No, they already know what happened. Ryan told the council. Guy’s got a loose set of lips on him. If Brendon were alive....”

 _Snitches and talkers get stitches and walkers._ “What about his group?”

“The Sinners?” Pete makes a distasteful face and Patrick cracks a jovial smile. “Yeah, he isn’t the best at choosing names. They’re being divided between the Cobras and Heroes so there’s no hard feelings about me murdering their bloodthirsty tyrant.”

Pete laughs at that, wincing as white hot pain explodes in his side. Patrick looks at him sympathetically and lightly presses his fingers against the soiled bandages concealing his wound. “I wouldn’t have killed Brendon if he didn’t hurt you,” he says in a soft voice. “I never cared much for him, but I didn’t want to bring harm to anybody.” He guides his hand up Pete’s neck and flicks a curl from his forehead.

Nuzzling into his hand, Pete retorts, “He asked for it. Literally. He was temperamental and wanted a fight. He got it and he died. There’s nothing to say about it.” The corners of his lips curve upwards despite the grave tone of his voice. “Thank you for protecting me so selflessly.”

“I’d do anything for you, Pete.”

An understanding is formed between them, like a flower spreading its petals and blooming. “And I’d do anything for you too.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ redveinbluevein


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